


A While

by soyamilked (orphan_account)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: AND DAICHI HAS SOME REALLY BAD PICK UP LINES OHMHYGODDD, Cafe AU, Ew, Fluff, M/M, One-Shot, This was rushedAnd terribly written, and daichi is v persistent, and he spends the first half of this fic going nope that barista is NOT CUTE NOPE, basically they suck at flirting, coffee shop AU, daisuga - Freeform, daisuga-freeform, fluff-fest, i use only 2 here but i had a cray time googling stuff he could use pfft, noya you are destroyinG THE ATMOSPHERE, or who knows maybe i'll add something idk, suga loves coffee too much, this is just a sappy autumn piece, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5051650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/soyamilked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daichi purposefully strides back into the kitchen, then returns with a damp rag and a small smile and Suga’s heart lurches because, wow, Daichi is good at this and <em>has it really been only a month</em> of really bad flirting on Daichi’s side, an ugly game of pretend from his, and cold, blizzard weather? </p><p>It feels like it had been longer than that. It had certainly been a while.</p><p>(Or: Daichi, please stop it with the pick-up lines; Suga is not impressed.)<br/>(But is he <em>really</em> not impressed?)</p><p>[*]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A While

**Author's Note:**

> sappy daisugas with writer!suga and barista!daichi 
> 
> i shat this out in like a single four hour sitting i didn't edit or beta read are u proud of me mom

 

 i.

 

_“Your hand looks heavy; let me hold it for you.”_

 It was the third time the barista had written on his cup this week, and it wasn’t appreciated. Shallow and trying-too-hard, he decides, and Sugawara shrugs it off, not entirely uncomfortable at the idea of another man hitting on him. Well, it has made his hands a little more sweaty and his lips dry, but it was probably how anyone would react in his situation, right? Literally the only reason he kept coming back was because of the good coffee, not the awkward, flirty barista who had a nice back and an even better smile, right? Yeah, obviously. “You’re not good at this,” Sugawara-san had said at first, lips pursed to a thin line that said absolutely nothing but “I’m not impressed.” His name in grape Sharpie is peeking from between his fingers, sitting on the beginnings of a pick up line, followed closely by a smiley. He ignores it. He’s here for a caffeine fix, nothing else. He swallows his coffee, but the lump in his throat doesn’t go down with it, and he squirms at how his cheeks are hotter than his drink when their eyes meet for the fraction of a second.

Autumn was ending with surprise showers and graceful golds, and he wishes he could put all that beauty in words, but his vocabulary feels pretty empty right now. Had been that way for a week, he thinks, and it’s upsetting him plenty. It was a dreary Tuesday, like all the Tuesdays had been for the past two weeks, cold and damp but not exactly wet. Weather was confusing, frankly, and he wasn’t built for the constant rise and fall of temperature or for sudden drizzles. Today had been more decided, though, rainy enough that he had to bring his umbrella and cold enough that he wrapped a scarf around his neck.  
Daichi had mentioned the idea struck him as charming, a red-nosed and sneezing Sugawara, that is, but, ah, what did Daichi know? Suga shook his name off–what Daichi thought doesn’t matter; Daichi is a stranger and the only reason he knows his name was because he had so fearlessly introduced himself after remarking that the beauty mark that was below his eye was ‘cute’. He didn’t say anything in return, even when his mouth had started to work around the words “smile” and “attractive”.

He strides down the familiar street, seven minutes away from his frugal but homely flat, sheets of rain pattering lightly against his red umbrella. It broke the monotonous gray nicely. It seemed like everything and everyone was as dark and gloomy as the weather. He rounds the block corner and pauses for the briefest of moments in front the double glass doors, and he spontaneously decides home can wait. Coffee, however, could not. Suga was not fond of light drizzles, because he found them unsure, tentative, but he did like a good cup of nice, warm coffee and lazing around in a cafe for any reason, so he let’s himself in, making the bell that hung over the door jingle.

The warm aroma of sweet, sweet caffeine welcomed him, loose tendrils of invisible steam curling themselves around his light gray hair. His eyes close for a moment, and then he walks to the counter with purpose, his order already on the tip of his tongue. The man behind the counter is tall and broad, older than him by a year or so, and he was wearing the same smile he did when he first walked in, except now it was brighter, more perilous. Perilous. Daichi was that in probably every sense of the word. “I’m having a grande of your Malaysian sweet roast, please,” “In a minute, Sugawara,” he quips, and Suga feels a jolt in him. His name rolls off his tongue with ease and familiarity, and you wouldn’t guess he said it the first time only three days ago. Suga sits on a stool near the counter and waits patiently, albeit uncomfortably, as Daichi makes his drink, humming to himself. Suga knows that song; it’s played a couple of times he’d been here, and the more he thought about it, the more he noticed it had played more often than the other songs, possibly on purpose. He wonders if he could ask Daichi to give him the title, or at least the artists, but his train of thought is broken by his name being repeated in the cool, crisp air.

“Here you go, _Sugawara_. Malaysian sweet roast with extra cream.” he says, handing him the cup. It has his name on it, and he eyes the Grape Sharpie smiley with some kind of distaste. He’s not sure if it’s distaste, but it’s something new and sour, like the aftertaste of cheap cocoa. Suga frowns. “I didn’t ask for extra cream.” “You did the first time, so I started putting them on my own.” he shrugs, and then rips the receipt off the machine. “How much more do I add?” he asks, shoveling through his mess of a backpack. “Nah, it’s cool. I got it,” he says, smiling more broadly than ever, and he is hitting on him, God, it’s so blindingly obvious. His stomach drops when he realizes Daichi still wrote on his cup, even when the cafe was practically empty, and no one else was waiting in line. 'On a scale of one to ten, you’re a nine, and I’m the one you need.’ Suga rolls his eyes and steps away, then settles on a window seat.

He feels hot. The nape of his neck, specifically, like two hot drills were boring into it, and he realizes that Daichi was probably eyeing the scattering of moles on his skin. They were almost freckles. It was weird. Daichi is cute, that much he has allowed himself to think, but he was busy and this was child’s play to boys who saw new people everyday, boys that made girls and boys swoon with a grin. Boys like Daichi. Daichi is cute, but right now that is all he is and that’s all he will be, even for just a while.  
'A while’ had been shorter than he had imagined, though.  
Everything is gray again, without his umbrella breaking the boring like blood on a canvas. He sips on his drink and lays a pile of papers in front of him, each messily scrawled on with multicolored ballpoint pens, sporting scratched out lines and coffee stains. He frowns some more, forehead creasing with worried lines. Writing is hard, hard work. Especially when writing on your block. He had hoped coffee would ease him up, get his fingers working on his twelfth chapter, but no.

He let’s out a frustrated huff of breath. His sixteen year old protagonist is in the throes of heartbreak, salty tears rolling down cheeks and toes curling and uncurling on sodden, cold sheets. Suga has to break hearts with words. That was one thing books were right about. Heartbreak. It was devastation wrecked in your insides and no words could pinpoint the pain exactly and trying to put in letters was just insane. It would be like randomly punching keys on a typewriter. Books were liars. Books made everything prettier, fancier, because there is so much fragility to it, making it some kind of precious artifact and everyone was happy all the time.  
The only books where people weren’t happy and in love at the same time all the time were the ones that had cancer and memory loss. Books were liars, because they made heartbreak seem a little more okay than it actually is, because it made people think that the kind of pain it gives is still translatable to human tongue. Books were liars, because heartbreak is horrible and destructive and the pain could be, at some point, almost unspeakable. His eyes travel suddenly to the figure behind the bar, wiping down polished china, yelling to another barista behind his shoulder, then suddenly breaking into a mass of bubbly laughter. He wonders what they were talking about–he hadn’t heard. His dry attempts at making his character sink into his misery had completely tuned out their words and he only just noticed the song playing over the radio, soft and mellow. Acoustic. Not like the last time he had heard it, when it was loud and upbeat, flickering somewhere between pop-rock and whatever they called today’s modern music.  
He shudders slightly when he thinks about how nice it would sound if Daichi sang it while he made his coffee instead of him quietly humming. He wasn’t too keen on the words, truth be told, but now, it rang with soft clarity, and he understood them. When they played the original, he couldn’t understand half the things the artist had been spouting. He let his gaze drop from the paper onto the plastic sheen of the heavily varnished oak table, and he hung onto the words, hopeful for anything that could tear down the stupid block that had been raining on his parade since forever.

 

 _“I talk a lot of shit when I’m drinking baby,_  
 I’m known to go a little too fast,  
don’t mind all my friends,  
I know they’re all crazy,  
But they’d the only friends that I have.  
And I know I don’t know you,  
but I’d like to skip the small talk and romance,  
that’s all I got to say,  
So baby, can we dance?”

 

Catchy, he thinks to himself. He’s heard it before, playing on the radio when he took the train home, once even heard some girls singing it high and loud at _two_ in the morning, kicking their feet with the beat, squatting on the sidewalk or leaning on the hoods of their battered, maybe borrowed cars. It was catchy, very, but it was a song of falling in love too quickly, not out of it. He needed a broken song, an elegantly pained kind of inspiration, the kind that girls listened to without bothering to wipe off the tears that trickled down their cheeks mixed with mascara. This was not that kind.

  
~~(It’s not until a few weeks later when he rewrites all the chapters but three and makes the story about falling in love recklessly, blindly, headfirst that he realizes maybe, _maybe_ this was the song that he needed.) ~~

It’s Friday, and he hadn’t been here since the song had last played, but the WiFi at home had gone down for some reason, and getting service back was taking too damn long. Thank God for cafes that offered free WiFi. He opens the door, bundled up in two jackets because it was getting even colder now, and the man on the news had promised snow in about four days. The smell was the same, maybe more intense, bold with hints of cinnamon. He takes a deep, hungry breath, then walks to the counter.

“One–” “Got it.” There’s a brilliant flash of a smile, then the gentle, lulling gurgle of the coffee machine. He seats himself on a stool near the counter then whips out his laptop. “What’re you working on?” Daichi asks suddenly, and Suga looks up.  
“A book.”  
“A book? I didn’t know you write.” he says, seemingly amused.  
He reaches for the cup and for the marker that sat in one of organizers and starts to uncap it when Suga lets out a yelp.  
“Don’t write on it!” He squeaks, and Daichi lets out a roaring laugh. “Why not? I like writing on it.” “I-I-I just, I don’t like it.” Suga expects him to be hurt, angry, even.  
But he’s not. Instead, he smiles, lowers the hand that wielded the pen, and hands him his drink. “Malaysian sweet roast, with extra cream.” “Thanks,” and then silence pierces the air, vibrating with the emptiness. His forehead creases again. He hated this silence. Maybe he was too rude?

“Why don’t you smile?” Daichi asks suddenly, and Suga looks up. “Its hard to smile.” Daichi shakes his head, plasters a grin to his face and points to it, saying, “It’s not, see?”  
Suga ’s face eases into a small, soft expression. Suga had a beautiful smile, no matter how small, and Daichi wanted to kick himself for not actually making a move until now, for not trying to see what he could do. He lifts his head and starts to say something when– "Woah, there, cutie.”

 _Sharp_. It cuts through the mellowed air that warmly invited casual conversation, and now he is _sure_ he can’t win over the cute guy with silver hair and stars on his neck, because there’s a thrum of wild static in the air, and it drew all attention to itself.  
Daichi could break his spine. He starts cracking his knuckles from under the table, when Suga says a curt, “Noya-san.”  
“You know him, Suga?” Daichi questions falteringly. “Yeah, middle school. I’d recognize the hair anywhere, anyway.” Noya let’s out a laugh, obnoxious to Suga’s sudden reservedness. He seemed more interested in rolling a lock of his silvery hair between his thumb and forefinger than catching up on an old friend. Strange, Daichi thought, then slips Suga’s receipt in between one of the leaves of his notebooks. Suga gives him a polite smile, nods when Noya says something about having to clean up in the kitchen and lets his eyes fall back onto his book.  
At this point, Daichi hasn’t got a clue what ’s supposed to say, so he leans over the counter and watches Suga jab at the keys to finish the blurb. A minute ticks by painfully. Two minutes. Three. “Rowdy, isn’t he?” Daichi could faint. Did Suga just start conversation? Yes. Yes, he did, and he had approximately five seconds to say something before he would look like an idiot, so he let’s out a high, squeaky, “Rowdy, yeah!” Suga’s eyebrows did the thing, meeting on his forehead in apparent confusion but he tips his head back a bit and laughs.  
Daichi’s insides squirm and he is, in fact, very likely to just keel over. Suga’s laughter was this insane mix of music and spring.  
He could pinch himself for being this cheesy and poetic, but he doesn’t and instead finds himself thinking about how nice the fabric of Suga’s jacket clung to him. He swallows. The rain eases into a light drizzle, then disappears completely. They talk some more, and half a cup of Malaysian sweet roast stands cold and forgotten beside Sugawara-san.

 

ii.

 

 Seven days later, the promised settle of snow arrives, and it blankets the entirety of the city. Suga liked it very much, because winter meant being decidedly cold and having to sit in front of a fire or drinking something warm, like coffee.  
It’s only a quarter past six, but the sky is a cool gray canvas with white smears for clouds, and the wind is slow and persistent. Snow falls on the cold asphalt in small, gentle flutters, and it glides down with the smoothness that the conversations between Suga and Daichi now carried. It was, turns out, relatively easy to fall into casual talk with him.  
Weather. Work. Coffee. Dogs. Trips to the ER. Funny stories. Stories about summer.  
Easy, he thinks, and he watches Daichi stride to his usual spot by the window, a drink and receipt with him. Easy, he thinks, as he takes the cup from Daichi’s rough fingers and thanks him. His heart misses a beat, and _he knows why._ He’s written enough about _it_ to know why, but he hides it behind his chest and instead moves to shuffle some manuscripts over the table.  
 It was fast, learning, realizing, like in the song Daichi hummed when he worked. He had fallen quick and hard. Reckless, blind and headfirst. Suga doesn’t mind, doesn’t think about it, and most of the time it only bothered him because it was so silly and childish.  
 It wasn’t as spectacular as in the books, that much he knows, because he writes and when you write about love it has to come with this rose-tinted imagery, with stolen kisses and skipped heartbeats.  
But real life love? Love that slithered beyond the pages of the world in his mind and sank it’s teeth into your skin? Oh, that love was _different_.  
Books are liars, he hums to himself. He eyes the way Daichi moves behind the counter, attending to another customer’s order. Beautiful, he thinks, and he decides maybe, maybe his vocabulary isn’t quite as empty as he initially thought, because he had taken a fresh leaf of paper and was writing about Daichi and the dark of his eyes and the flash of smile and the elegant grace in the lines of his arms and, shit, his chest aches. Pathetic, he thinks to himself.

Yes, be interested in the guy you had rolled your eyes at the other day for flirting with you, because that would totally be okay. He cringes at his own sarcasm.  
He breathes heavily and focuses back on Daichi. He was lean and tall, well-built if he’d care to go there. His strong jaw was lined with chiseled features, a straight bridge of his nose between his chocolate irises. His face is pulled in a tight smile, and he evidently shudders when the customer, a woman in what looked like her late forties, smacked him lightly on the shoulder. She cooed something about leaving him her number, her long, spindly fingers fluffing up her white-blone locks.

Daichi’s smile is even tighter now, shaking his head vigorously and thanking her for buying anyway. Suga notes how he doesn’t ask her to enjoy her coffee or to come back soon. He grins a little, in spite of himself. She persists for a few more minutes, and Suga is biting down his lip trying to stifle his laughter. He takes this time to see the differences between awkward-uncomfortable Daichi to obnoxiously-flirtatious Daichi. He decides awkward Daichi is cuter, while flirty Daichi is more… hazardous. Yes. That’s the word, because he’s something he doesn’t need, something dangerous.  
He writes about both Daichis, and he’s well past his four hundred words mark when he hears what was probably supposed to be a light, flirty “Goodbye.” All in all it just sounded like she was having an aneurism with the way she singsonged it. The bell over the door chimes, and they hear a string of garbled curses when cold wind bit at her shoulder because she had taken her jacket off in what was probably a dry attempt at impressing Daichi. It was still a long shot at best because Daichi didn’t seem interested in her either way. Daichi is scurrying to his table, another cup in hand.

“I didn’t order another one,” Suga says, vaguely panicked, flipping the pages of out of Daichi’s view. Poor man might freak over his casual observance of him. Daichi makes a face, then says, “It was for me.” Suga relaxes a bit, but then he _feels Daichi’s hands on his own_ , and he hiccups.  
“Is that a cut?” He asks, pulling his arm to his face. “Do you cut? Are you okay?” He says all at once, concern warm on his tongue, and sweet, merciful God, why was Suga thinking about his _tongue_? Suga shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Out of line,” he says quickly, but keeping his grip on Suga's hand.  
Suga doesn’t bother pulling away and instead murmurs, “I’m not good at cooking. Or handling knives, for that matter.” Daichi softens, traces a remarkably gentle finger across the thin scar on his arm. “That’s good. You not cutting, I mean.”  
Daichi wraps his hands around his drink and takes a few, long gulps an, the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down was suddenly very interesting to Suga. Something in Suga’s chest tingles, and he realizes Daichi still hadn’t let go of his arm.

And he isn’t pulling away.

Daichi places the cup on the table with a flourish and gently sets his arm on the surface, not really letting go. Their skin still touched and Daichi was still tracing the scar. He takes a deep breath, and Suga flares a deep red when Daichi upturned his hand, set it on the table, then casually laid his cheek on his palm. He just sat there like that, his face on Suga’s hand, his own awkwardly splayed out on his sides. “Must be so exhausting to have all these old ladies ask for your number all the time,” Suga chirps, a little less than bright. He mumbles something incoherent, and Suga hums questioningly. “I said its more exhausting when a cute guy ignores you when you hit on him,” Suga throws his head back and laughs.  
“You could try harder,” he says half jokingly, but there was a flash in Daichi’s eyes that meant everything he had said was taken seriously.

As evidence, Daichi looks up hopefully and says, “Can I walk you home?”

It hits Suga with the force of a storm.

“Y-Yes.”

 

iii.

 

The first time Daichi walked him home, it had been very, very awkward. Reaching the door made the air sting with anticipation, except none of them knew what exactly they were waiting for, all unsteady heartbeats and precarious breaths.

Suga gives him a tottering thanks, stumbling on his words and flushing nervously. Daichi waves him off, running the back of his neck with a free hand, the other fidgeting out of his own control. His watches Suga fumble around his house keys, and Daichi stares at the light smattering of moles peeking from underneath his scarf on the back of his neck before offering to open the door for him. Daichi easily envelops Suga’s hand in his own, and he firmly sets it against the slot and twists it open. There’s a resounding click, and heat crawls back onto both of their faces.  
“I-I, thanks, D-Daichi,” Suga says, then he flees inside, shuts the door in his face, and slides down slowly, because his knees have _never_ been this wobbly and they can’t seem to hold his weight up anymore. He catches a splinter in his jacket, tugs it free, and flicks it away.

The second time it happens, Daichi is a little braver. He had counted the number of times he had made Suga smile that day–twelve, to be exact– and he’s a little more daring, a little bolder, and he offers to teach Suga how to make sushi. They amble clumsily out of the shop and to Suga’s home, steps in rhythm, shoulders bumping and blood rising to their temples. “I have the ingredients,” Suga says dismissively when Daichi nudges him towards the grocery store, and they continue the cold trek to his flat.

Daichi is a good cook.  
Suga pokes at the steaming sushi with his chopsticks, munching on two more he had so easily stuffed in his cheeks. Daichi said it made him look like a hamster. “A chubby hamster that stuffs his cheeks,” Suga tried frowning, but his mouth was too full and his mouth hurt, and this made him laugh. The laugh was rather unsuccessful though, because two seconds later Daichi is pounding on his back and he is coughing. “I’ll get you a glass of water,” he says, rising.  
Suga sinks back into the couch, hands suddenly coming into contact with Daichi’s seat. Warm. He flushes a violent pink. “Here,” he says, setting the glass on the table. He musters a throaty thanks, and gratefully gulps down the drink. Everything is _weird_ and _new_ but **_not wrong_** and Suga’s heart is going a mile a minute.

“You okay now?” He hears. He nods feverishly, mumbles that he is, but the sweat lining his forehead and dripping down his neck say otherwise. “Yeah, I don’t think you are,” Daichi presses, sitting back down next to him and feeling his brow. But wait for it. Daichi does the next best thing. He keeps his hand on his forehead, then oh-so slowly lets it slide down, twisting his wrist so his knuckles brushed those burning cheeks. “I think you have a fever.” He says simply, like he didn’t just do something that people in movies did.  
He purposefully strides back into the kitchen, then returns with a damp rag and a small smile and Suga’s heart lurches because, wow, Daichi is _good_ at this and has it really been only _a month_ of really bad flirting on Daichi’s side, an ugly game of pretend from his, and coffee and cold, blizzard weather?  
It feels like it had been longer than that. It had certainly been a while.

Afterwards, when Daichi bids him good night and tells him to “get enough sleep” and “drink lots of fluid”, he lays his head on the cotton sheets and sighs because there is no way he can get enough sleep now. Not when he can still feel the heat of Daichi’s hands on his face and or when he can still smell the generous amount of perfume Daichi had so lavishly sprayed on himself, not when his scent left traces on his clothes and sent shimmers in the air.  
Suga grimaces at his own child-like illusion of this whole thing. He knows this isn’t how it works, and when it does it just doesn’t last because people are people and they fall out of love and hearts get broken.  
He grimaces at the fluttery feeling in his stomach because it doesn’t quite feel like a working set of digestive organs and instead feels like a pile of icky trembling goop and oh my God his cheeks are hot and they’re tired from smiling so so so very much.

Well, the books had been right about one thing.

People can always warn you about love, tell you it sounds a lot dreamier than it actually is, that it doesn’t work out all the time and you need to live with the pain it comes hand in hand with, but that’s not gonna stop you from falling anyway. It’s the same promise of rollercoaster emotions and _just a lot of feelings_ people probably don’t have words for, and it feels _right_.

_Suga swallows his pride and decides firmly. He is in love now and anything and everything that’s coming later can come later because he’s in love._

Sleep comes in slowly, restless, and when he wakes up, he is ninety nine percent sure he’s gonna die, drowned in a puddle of his own sweat. He had kicked the sheets off at some point in his sleep, and his shirt hiked up his chest, his arms awkwardly splayed out on the bed.

In the morning, Suga feels like he’s nursing the mother of hangovers, as if he had been intoxicated with an unholy mix of rum, whiskey and beer when all he’s had the night before, really, was Daichi walking him home and feeling his face.  
_That_ was a cocktail of emotions on its own. Damn, Daichi was just _too much._ He had made his life feel like a tall glass of coffee (Malaysian sweet roast, to be exact) that was either bland and diluted or terribly strong and sweet. Confusing. Unsure.

God, all this sappiness was unstoppable. Maybe he could channel all this cheese and dump it on his novel.

He’s a sweaty mess, Daichi in his mind first thing when he wakes up, and of course, Daichi has to see him like this, in this state, and when Daichi pokes his head around the door, he wonders why he doesn’t spontaneously self-combust. “How’d you get in?” He asks, sitting up groggily. “You didn’t lock the door, and you weren’t answering my calls.” He says, then walks in. “You called? I don’t remember giving you my number,” he scratches the side of his head, confused. “It’s on the brass plate of your door, right underneath your room number. It has your name and everything.”  
Ah. That. He lets his hand drop back on the bed. There’s a silence again, annoying an awkward, and Daichi has to keep clearing his throat to let Suga know he hasn’t turned into stone yet.  
“Uh, I brought food?” he says, sounding unsure of himself, and Suga laughs at this.  
 “Thanks,” he says, and he bites his tongue though he has more thoughts than “Thanks,” going berserk on his mind and probably even more to say.  
Daichi blushes a bit. “Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t be able to cook since you’re sick.” Suga swings his legs off the bed and stands up slowly, then laughingly says, “I still couldn’t even if I was well.”

They walk to the kitchen, matching each other step for step, cramming themselves through a hallway that was made for one, not minding the brush of their fingertips in the slightest. He would get used to this in a while.

Daichi walks him home everyday now, because he goes to the shop that often, and it feels nice. His blurb is stuck on it’s seventeenth chapter, but it’s okay, he is in no rush.  
Not when he’s feeling at home in the dim lighting and scent of caramel and coffee and certaily not when he feels Daichi’s eyes on him, making him slow down, take his time and watch himself.  
Daichi helps, or at least he tries to, and he blatantly insists he should put in a 'sidekick’ for the love interest, like one the best friend falls in love with because he can’t have the other. “Maybe next time,” Suga says, smiling softly. Daichi smiles back and lays his order on the table with a wink. “It’s on me,” he says, then mentions something about teaching Suga how to make rice and egg rolls later when they walk home. Suga nods.  
The snowing stopped a quarter before seven, and fairy lights that hung in thin strands connected the isolated electric poles and street lights. It was almost dreamy. Daichi was next to him, all broad shoulders and velvet smiles, and Suga wasn’t sure why his heart hadn’t exploded yet.

“Hey,” he begins quietly. “Hm?” Daichi stops in his tracks to look at Suga.

“Wanna check out the park?”  
“Park?”  
“Mhm. It’s really pretty around this time of the year,” Suga reasons.

Daichi bites the inside of his cheek, undecided. “Ah, what the hell,” he says, then takes Suga’s arm and leads the way.

Suga can feel his warmth radiating through seven layers of cloth and skin, heating his bones.

 

He hadn’t felt this way in a while.

**Author's Note:**

> This is gross and I hate this soryrtyryry


End file.
